


Acacia and Cherry Blossoms (Have More in Common Than You Think)

by Blackwatch_McCree



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Fantasy, M/M, Rimming, Shimadacest, Train Sex, incest warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackwatch_McCree/pseuds/Blackwatch_McCree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day the koi kites fly marks the anniversary of Genji's death and reappearance both; normally, Hanzo would be satisfied with a distraction from McCree, but today he's looking for something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acacia and Cherry Blossoms (Have More in Common Than You Think)

**Author's Note:**

> 24-loot box Commission for @demon-hunter-erp on Tumblr! Thanks for commissioning me!

Today the koi kites are flying in Hanamura. Usually, Hanzo would be walking beneath them, listening to their crinkled rustling in the wind as he approaches Shimada castle to pay his respects. But this year, he’s staring across the moonlit haystraw fields of the Serengeti as their conductor announces over speaker that they’re 5 hours out from Numbani, and will be pulling into the city just after daybreak. Big mission tomorrow. He should get some sleep, or at least try his best to rest. Once they land in the city, it will be time for work.

In the bunk across from his, McCree sleeps sprawled out, hat over his eyes to block out the moon. His snoring is a deep rhythmic rumble in the background of the wind outside the train, a sound that started as an irritating nuisance and ultimately became comforting white noise to Hanzo’s ears. McCree may play the part of the lazy, laid-back cowboy, but he too has a history of being on the run, and he’s learned to sleep light. The snore is a sign that he’s actually resting, something Hanzo should do.

Hanzo closes his eyes, but his mind wanders back to Hanamura. He plays out his yearly pilgrimage in his mind’s eye - here is the arcade, flashing neon lights and pachinko bells; here is the ramen shop, the smell of fresh miso so tempting his stomach growls; here are the gates of Shimada Castle, the ouroboros twin dragons carved into the two massive wooden doors. It’s dark by the time he’s scaling the walls, and he’s relying on the moonlight and his nostalgic familiarity with the grounds to light his way.

Hanzo huffs in annoyance and opens his eyes again. The further he wanders down this gravel path, the further he’ll get from actually resting. Instead, he looks out the window again. The moon is full tonight, hanging low in the sky like it’s heavy with its own luminance. Hanzo looks outside the window again and watches the landscape speed by; among the tall grass of the savannah, a sleeping pair of lions lay curled together under a large acacia tree.

It reminds him of Hanamura. The cherry blossom trees installed around the city were modified to bloom year-around; their bright pink blossoms appear on every tourist pamphlet and advertisement. They give the city it’s reputation for romance, drawing young couples on vacation and single hopefuls searching for love. Hanzo came to despise those damn trees for their frivolity, but Genji took full advantage of the entire air of romance in Hanamura, wooing both ladies and men left and right with his roguish charm and boyish good looks.

Genji’s old comrades might know he used to be a playboy, but Hanzo doubts they knew just how _much_ of a playboy he was. Except for perhaps one night a month, Genjis was sneaking home from love hotels, sneaking a lover out of the castle through the windows, or, later, sneaking from Hanzo’s room and back to his own.

Hanzo takes a sharp breath and lets it out slowly. This isn’t something he’s allowed himself to think about for years and years now, but in the quiet train car racing along the African veldt, he cannot help his thoughts from honing in on the question he’s had since meeting his brother again a year ago. Genji had been alive this entire time, trapped in a mechanical body that worked functionally but failed to capture his charisma. Genji had always been extremely expressive, his emotions written across his face like bold ink on white paper, and the blank silver mask could never hope to emulate the excited sparkle in his eyes at good news, the pout on his lips at being denied something he wanted, the lewd blush across his cheeks as he broke down Hanzo’s resolve with a whispered “Make some noise for me Aniki” and a sharp thrust of his hips.

With his heart beating in his ears, Hanzo allows himself to imagine what Genji might look like today had their fight eleven years ago not happened. At 25, Genji was already a handsome young man, and age would only accentuate the sharp line of his jaw, his high cheekbones. Hanzo was always destined to look more like their father. But Genji, with his wide eyes and impish grin, took after their mother more, and her beauty was one of the many gifts she was able to leave her youngest, but not her eldest.

Genji would have a beard by now, Hanzo thinks. Not a thick one like his own - that’s too much to take care of. But perhaps a mustache and a line of stubble along the curve of his jaw, just short of a five o’clock shadow. He’d have smile lines just barely appearing at this point, but only when he grins wide. Genji never liked his hair long, but he is vainer about his hair than the rest of his appearance; Hanzo imagines a stylish cut for him, longer on the top than the sides, combed to the left. Just long enough to grab, if someone really wanted to get close.

And Hanzo would be close, of course, though he’s never been much of a hair-puller. He’s always preferred using his teeth, and Genji’s sun-darkened skin would be perfect to show off those red-purple bruises. Not all of them would be under clothes, because with Genji’s reputation nobody would question the existence of love marks on his body anyway. But Hanzo puts the best ones in places only he’s allowed to bite: the sensitive insides of Genji’s upper thigh, the taut muscle of Genji’s lower back, the sharp jut of Genji’s hips.

His brother’s body, tight lean muscle from swordsmanship and acrobatics, is his canvas to claim. Hanzo may not have had much of a talent for the humanities, but he’s no stranger to the art of possession. This older Genji might twist his sword-calloused hands in someone else’s sheets, but in the end he will always belong to Hanzo; it is Hanzo’s name on his lips, Hanzo’s touch he craves, Hanzo’s -

Hanzo snaps out of his thoughts as he realizes the eerie quiet in the room. The wind is still a dull roar outside the train but in the bunk across from him, McCree has stopped snoring. He hasn’t moved from his sleepy sprawl, hat still over his eyes and arms stretched over his head, but he’s too quiet to be truly asleep, even though Hanzo can still see the rise and fall of his wide chest.

“Doin’ all right over there, darlin’?” McCree finally asks, though he still doesn’t move.

“Fine,” Hanzo responds, in a shorter voice than he meant to. “Just can’t sleep.”

“Nightmare?” McCree asks. He pushes the hat up to look at Hanzo with concerned brown eyes. “I can hear you breathin’ hard from over here.”

“No,” Hanzo says. It would have been easier to lie and say “yes,” but he doesn’t want to worry McCree when they have a big mission tomorrow. “I am fine. Go back to sleep.”

Of course, if it were that easy, Hanzo would’ve suspected an infiltration. McCree is nothing if not diligent, and Hanzo watches in resigned exasperation as McCree slowly pulls himself out of his bunk, takes three steps across the room, and rolls onto Hanzo’s instead. He curls on the pristine sheets, laying on his side to face Hanzo’s back.

“What are you doing, Jesse?” Hanzo asks, trying his best not to sound irritated; McCree’s only trying to help. But the bunk back at headquarters barely accommodates the both of them, and it’s not terribly comfortable. The train bunk is even smaller - McCree takes up a good eighty percent of it.

A metal hand snakes across his abdomen. “You’re tenser than an overtuned guitar string,” McCree says. “Sweetheart, you can tell me what’s on your mind. Can’t help you if you don’t.”

McCree assures him of this at least once every two weeks. Hanzo always hesitates, even on topics not nearly as private as this. McCree has problems of his own, and he doesn't need to be burdened with Hanzo’s issues as well. But what is Hanzo even expected to tell him right now? _Oh, I was just fantasizing about the incredibly sexual relationship my younger brother and I might have if I hadn’t killed him and doomed him to a half-measured life trapped in a body that’s more machine than organic. It’s nothing to worry about._

Instead, Hanzo lays a hand across McCree’s cheek, fingers just barely scratching at the scruff of his beard. “I suppose I could stand a distraction,” he says instead.

McCree’s concern breaks into a wide grin. “Now that I can do,” He says. The other arm, flesh and blood, wraps around Hanzo’s chest. Normally Hanzo would take control here, twisting around to straddle McCree and pin the cowboy’s arms above his head, but this time he lets McCree grope under the _hakama_ and leans back into the grasp.

McCree’s hands are rougher, his fingers more direct in their search as he rubs a thumb over Hanzo’s nipple. Hanzo closes his eyes and imagines Genji’s fingers instead. The callouses aren’t in the right place, but that’s the difference between handling a revolver and handling a katana. Hanzo hardly minds: McCree knows the places to touch that make Hanzo sigh and relax, knows how to gently ease Hanzo’s legs apart with little more than a murmured hum.

“Darlin’,” McCree says, pulling the black _hakama_ fully open. Hanzo feels the rumble of the word against his spine but in his mind he hears something different; McCree’s resonant baritone turns into Genji’s bright tenor as he whispers “Aniki,” and a shiver runs across Hanzo’s skin that has nothing to do with the air conditioning in their sleeping car.

McCree pulls the blue _obi_ off and Hanzo finally relents, turning around and opening his eyes to face the cowboy in his bunk. McCree whispers a soft “C’mere,” hands on Hanzo’s hips, thumbs rubbing just above the line of the pants. Genji wouldn’t be this patient; Genji would have the both of them naked at this point, rutting against Hanzo’s thigh in eagerness. Genji would need to be told to slow down; Hanzo is always encouraging McCree to hurry up.

Usually Hanzo prefers McCree’s slower, more earnest pace. But tonight with the koi flags flying halfway across the world, he’s hungry for something different, and he tugs open McCree’s shirt, palming the thick hair on the cowboy’s chest and belly. Genji wouldn’t have as much body hair, but he’d definitely have at least a line running down from his belly button. Hanzo kisses down that line. He unbuckles the gaudy belt (ironically, the one thing McCree and Genji do have in common is their shameful taste in over-the-top ostentatiousness), pulls down McCree’s jeans to the knees. He digs his nose in the brown curls at the base of McCree’s cock and imagines black curls there instead, though the musky scent is unmistakable.  

“Hold on,” McCree says, and Hanzo lifts his head but huffs in annoyance. He gets a smirk, thick fingers running through the greying fluffs of hair at his temples. “I’m supposed to be distractin’ you, right?”

“You’re doing a fine job,” Hanzo says.

“I reckon I can do better,” McCree responds. “Turn around and straddle my face.”

Hanzo blinks, frozen for a moment at the audacity of the request. Honestly, _Americans_ , with their lack of decorum and their infuriating directness - it still catches Hanzo off guard, no matter how long he’s had to get used to it. But McCree is rubbing circles into his hipbone again and murmuring, “C’mon, trust me,” and Hanzo relents.

(It doesn’t have anything to do with how the particular softness of McCree’s voice as he said “trust me” stirs up yet another memory. Hanzo relents because he wants to, not because the grin on McCree’s face reminds him of Genji kneeling over him their first time, face flushed, a smile showing teeth, reassuring him in soft Japanese, “Trust me Aniki, I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”)

Hanzo lets his pants drop to the floor with the rest of his clothes and climbs back into the bunk, legs on either side of McCree’s head. The compartment isn’t tall enough for him to sit up straight so he leans over, face close to the throbbing length of McCree’s cock. It’s a bit of an awkward angle but he can work with this; one hand to the left of McCree’s hip steadies him as he wraps the other hand around McCree’s cock, leaning down to lick at the swollen head. McCree is hard and breathy just from a bit of touching - Hanzo doesn’t know whether he should be surprised or flattered.

McCree’s hands squeeze at his cheeks, metal hand applying enough force that it’s almost uncomfortable. Hanzo wriggles in his grasp, a displeased grunt in his throat though he should be used to this by now; Genji loved squeezing his ass too, sometimes hard enough to bruise. But Genji was always more of a scratcher, leaving long red welts down Hanzo’s back or along the sides of his ribs, sometimes digging in his fingernails hard enough that afterwards, Hanzo bleeds lines into his bedsheets. Payback for all the bites, he supposes. Fair enough.

But McCree is more apologetic, kissing where he was squeezing, beard brushing against Hanzo’s sensitive skin. Hanzo groans as he feels McCree’s breath against his taint, McCree’s tongue swiping along the underside of his balls. As much as the cowboy likes to talk, he can work miracles with his tongue and Hanzo’s already wound up from his fantasies earlier; he takes McCree’s cock into his mouth and gently rocks back against McCree’s face, the best encouragement he can give without physically speaking.

Hanzo feels more than hears the sigh against his skin, the hands on his ass squeezing tight again as McCree’s muscles tense in reflex. He’s waiting for the reciprocating mouth on his own cock; what he’s not expecting is the swipe of a warm tongue against his hole, and he jerks in surprise.

McCree chuckles behind him and gives him a reassuring pat on the thigh. “Relax, darlin’,” he says. “I would never hurt ya.”

Just like that, the fantasy floods back into his mind. Hanzo claws at the sheets and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s McCree’s scent in his nose but Genji’s cock throbbing in his mouth. McCree’s mismatched hands on his ass but Genji’s tongue probing his hole. Genji’s calloused hands pumping his cock, Genji’s stubble rubbing against the bottom of Hanzo’s ass so rough as he licks that there’s a real danger of rugburn. Genji’s lips kissing a slobbery mess between Hanzo’s cheeks. Genji’s voice breathing, in reverence, “Aniki, you taste so good.”

It’s almost too much, the wetness and sloppiness, the bitter, salty taste of precum in his mouth. Hanzo moans and shudders, just barely able to stifle Genji’s name on his tongue. He’s shaking but he’s running too hot, abdomen muscles tightening as he drips his own precum in small beads onto McCree’s chest. McCree pulls him closer and Hanzo lifts his head, replaces his mouth with a hand in order to lean back, knees spreading wider as he breathes staccato moans into the air. He can hear McCree moaning behind him, lewd vibrations against Hanzo’s hole and balls that make him arch his back.

Hanzo curls his toes and grips the bedsheets for dear life as he imagines rutting his ass like this into Genji’s face. Seeing his brother’s round eyes gleaming in arousal, pretty pink lips puckering against his hole. Hanzo bites his bottom lip and whines low in his throat as he rides McCree’s tongue, grinding a rhythm to the licks and thrusts. Oh god, if he could have Genji underneath him like this…

The tongue withdraws for a moment and Hanzo pauses, looking back with a questioning gaze. McCree is flushed and his hair is wild, there’s spit all around his mouth and beard and he’s grinning still, like this is the best time of his life, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than between Hanzo’s cheeks. (McCree is genuine enough for Hanzo to believe it, too.)

“Darlin’,” He says, though Hanzo hears _Aniki_ , “Why don’t you make some noise for me?”

(Genji in his room in Hanamura, drunk off of his own adrenaline and rebellion, crawling into his bed naked and Hanzo should push him off, should tell him to go back to his own room but he craves it too and here’s his chance to taste that sweet, forbidden fruit that is his younger brother, so he puts responsibility to the wayside and opens his arms and lets Genji mount him like a dog in heat, and it feels so good, better than anything he would’ve imagined, certainly better than his own hand and fingers, and Hanzo always would pretend that he’d managed to tame Genji that night but it was always the other way around, Genji had him on a leash and collar, Genji had him addicted and wanting, it’s always been about Genji even when Hanzo insists it’s not.)

Hanzo’s grip on the bedsheets turns his knuckles white. Every muscle in his body tenses and liquid fire blooms from the bottom of his stomach and races into his blood. He’s moaning one long note of pleasure as McCree’s tongue finally pushes him over the edge, he’s splashing cum onto McCree’s chest and is only vaguely aware of McCree tensing underneath him too, an unceremonious grunt and the spill of cum over Hanzo’s fingers. He’s shuddering in oversensitivity and the last vestige of Genji’s breath in that dark room in Hanamura is just barely beginning to fade away.

Hanzo doesn’t quite collapse, but he lowers himself, shaking, perhaps a little harder than he intended to, onto McCree’s belly. He hears a quiet “Oof” and kisses McCree’s soft belly in apology, sighing into the hair there. This will be uncomfortable in a minute, but for now his heart's still beating under his skin and he’s warm and sated. He licks some of the cum off his fingers absentmindedly, wiping the rest into the bedsheet when he gets bored of that.

“Hey,” McCree says, squeezing his thigh. “Not that the view ain’t great from this angle, but why don’t you come over here and properly cuddle?”

Hanzo’s too groggy to protest, moves a bit on his own but lets McCree do most of the maneuvering. The bunk is still tiny, and they’ll both need a shower tomorrow morning before the mission. But they’re still three and a half hours out of Numbani, and the horizon is still dark; McCree starts snoring before long, a heavy arm draped over Hanzo’s stomach.

Hanzo follows shortly after, a deep sleep unplagued by dreams. Halfway across the world, the koi kites are still flying.


End file.
